She trailed off as she saw the object that Siris had set down beside the woodpile. The Infinity Blade. It almost seemed to glow in the sunlight.
“Hell take me,” Myan whispered, raising her hand to her mouth. “By the seven lords who rule in terror. You actually did it? You killed him?”
Siris swung the axe down again on the log. He hit it off-center again. It’s the grain, he thought. I’m trying to hit it across the grain, instead of with the grain.
Strange. He could kill a man seventeen ways with this axe. He could imagine each one in perfect order, could feel his body moving through those motions. Yet he couldn’t chop wood. He’d never had a chance to try.
“So you didn’t see reason,” Myan said.
“No,” Siris replied.
His mother had never wanted him to go. Oh, she hadn’t been overt about her displeasure. She hadn’t wanted to undermine what the rest of the town—the rest of the land itself—saw as his destiny and her privilege. Perhaps she’d sensed, in some way, that it had been his destiny. He’d never given serious thought to fleeing. That would have been like . . . like climbing the tallest mountain in the world, then turning back ten steps from the summit.
No, she hadn’t tried to undermine his training. But what mother would want her son to go off to certain death? She’d tried to talk him out of it the night before the Feast of the Sacrifice, the most forward of her attempts. By then, it had been too late. For both of them.
“We have to take you to town,” she exclaimed. “Talk to the elders. There will be celebrations! Parties! Dancing and . . . and . . . And what is that look on your face, my son?”
“I’ve been to town,” he said, pulling his arm from her grip. “There will be no celebrations, Mother. They sent me away.”
“Sent you away . . . Why would they . . .” She paused, studying him. “Those small-minded fools. They’re afraid, aren’t they?”
“I guess they have reason to be,” Siris said, putting the axe aside and sitting down on the stump. “They’re right. People will come looking for me.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said, crouching down beside him. “Son, I’m not sending you away again. I’m not going through that again.”
He looked up, but said nothing. Perhaps with the support of the town, he’d have stayed. But with just his mother . . . No. He wouldn’t endanger her.
Why had he even come to her, then? Because I wanted her to know, he thought. Because I needed to show her that I’m alive. Perhaps a greater kindness would have been to stay away.
“You’re not going to let me choose, are you?” she said.
He hesitated, then shook his head.
Her hand tightened on his arm. “Ever the warrior,” she whispered. “Well, at least let me feed you a good meal. Then perhaps we can talk further.”
He felt immeasurably better with a good meal in his stomach. His mother hadn’t had any everberries for a pie, unfortunately, but she’d fixed him some peach cobbler. He carefully noted in his logbook:
I like peach cobbler. Definitely like peach cobbler.
“How many times did I try to feed you that when you were growing up?” she asked him, sitting across the table and watching him as he spooned up the last bite.
“Dozens,” he said.
“And you refused every time.”
“I . . .” It was hard to explain. He’d known his duty, somehow. Even from childhood, he’d known. The town’s expectations had held him to high standards, but the truth was that he’d held himself to them as well.
“You always were an odd child,” she said. “So solemn. So dutiful. So focused. Sometimes I felt less like a mother to you, and more like a . . . an innkeeper. Even when you were young.”
It made him uncomfortable when she talked like that. “You never speak of Father. Was he the same?”
“I didn’t know him long,” she said, looking wistful. “Isn’t that odd to say? We met like it was a dream, married in under a month. Then he was gone, off to be the Sacrifice. He left me with you.”
She’d come here to Drem’s Maw in order to get away from her old life. She had cousins here, though she’d never really fit in. Neither had he, even though the townspeople had claimed to be proud of being the ones to raise the Sacrifice.
“He did have a sense of purpose,” she said, nodding. “The same as you.”
“I wish I had that still,” Siris replied. He looked down at his empty plate, then sighed and stood. “I had hoped that now . . . finally . . . I could go about being myself. Whoever that is.”
“Must you go, Siris?” she asked. “You could stay, hide here. We could make it work.”
“No,” he said. I won’t bring this down upon you.
“I can’t make you stay, I suppose.” She didn’t seem pleased about that. “But where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” he said, gathering the cloak, wrapped like a pack with his armor inside of it.
“Are you at least willing to listen to a little advice?”
“From you?” he said. “Always.”
“I wished to the lights of heaven that you hadn’t set your feet on this path. But you did, son.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s foolishness,” she said. “You always have a choice.”
Foolishness or not, it was still how he felt.
“You set your feet on this path,” she continued. “So now you need to finish what you began.”
“I did finish it,” he complained. “I killed the God King! What more could they ask of me?”
“It’s no longer about what people are asking of you, son,” she said. She reached over, taking his hand. “I’m sorry,” she said more softly. “You don’t deserve this. It is true.”
He looked down.
“Don’t despair.” She rose, taking him by the arms. “You’ve done something wonderful, Siris. Something everyone thought impossible. You have fulfilled the dreams of your fathers, and avenged their deaths.” She pulled away and looked up at him. “Do you remember what we spoke of, on that night before you left?”
“Honor.”
“I told you that if you are going to do something, son,” she said, “you need to do it with all of your heart. You have something you didn’t have before. Hope. You’ve defeated one of them. They can be beaten.”
She held his eyes, and he nodded slowly.
“Good,” she said, squeezing his arms. “I’ll pack you food for your trip.”
He watched her limp away. She’s right, he thought. I’ve done the impossible once. I’ll do it again.
This time, however, he wouldn’t be hunting someone to kill. This time his quest would be more personal. Somehow, he would find the one thing he’d always wanted without realizing it.
He’d find freedom.
Chapter Two
The God King came awake with a deep gasp. It was the uncontrolled gasp of one who had been without breath for too long. The gasp of the dead returning to life, his heart pounding, his eyes opening wide. It was a terrifying, yet exhilarating feeling.
It was a feeling he had never wanted to feel again.
Around him floated the serene sounds of his Seventh Temple of Reincarnation. Soft rain outside, hitting leaves and the quiet rooftop, leaving the air cool and damp. A few muted beeps from the deadminds that monitored his vital signs. The swishing of robes in the hallway outside; his Devoted, hurrying to obey the call of reincarnation.
Yes, outside was serenity. Inside was chaos. That would not do. Thousands of years of life had taught Raidriar many things, but the most important was to be in control. He sat up, reaching out to pick up the helm that lay on the nearby table. The faces of the Deathless were not to be seen by common mortals.
He rose, bare feet upon the smooth bamboo floor, and crossed the room to where a suit of armor stood waiting. One of the newer sets, the height of current design and technology. He’d been meaning to begin using it—this offered a good chance.
His
old set had probably been taken by thieves by now, robbed from his corpse.
He checked the wall-mounted deadmind mirror—that mirror would have been called a ‘monitor’ in earlier eras, but it had been so long that he’d stopped using such terms. They could be confusing to people in this era. The mirror’s information indicated that his new body was functioning normally, that reincarnation had been a success, and that all was well in this particular quarter of his kingdom.
He stepped into the armor, which lay open and splayed like a corpse on a dissection table. It began to fold around him, locking into place.
The fight replayed in his mind. Another in a long line of “heroes” come to kill him, responding to the seeded legends. An offer to join him refused. A duel, one on one, after the classical ideal. Did these mortals understand the honor he did them in granting them such a privilege? Probably not—after all, this mortal had ended that duel by ramming the God King’s own blade into his chest.
For just a moment, lying stunned at the foot of his throne, the God King had known true fear. He could not suppress a shiver. That . . . that boy had used the Infinity Blade, killer of gods.
I could have died, he thought. Died the final death, real death. The concept was unfamiliar. He turned it over in his head, like a man tasting a new vintage of wine.
He found that wine bitter. It reminded him of something he had been long, long ago. He had no more in common with that person of old than an acorn had with a mighty oak. No—no more in common than an acorn had with a temple constructed from that oak.
The comfortable familiarity of his armor enveloped him, locking onto his arms, hands, neck, torso. Cool air immediately circulated over his skin, and the armor took account of his vitals, delivering strength, bursts of healing, and other aid through careful injections. He slipped on the helm.
The armor itself had no life, of course—not even a deadmind—and the boosts it gave were minimal. In clashes between the Deathless, one’s own body was the true test. Armor that worked like a machine had been abandoned millennia ago. When you could not be killed permanently, you found other ways to prove yourself superior. Duels were about finesse, skill, and class, not who could construct the most powerful device to aid them.
His Devoted entered in a cluster, then fell to their knees. The God King passed them, his footsteps crunching on the bamboo rug. “Activate the deadminds in the temple of Lantimor,” he said, waving a gauntleted hand.
“Great master?” asked one of the Devoted, looking up. “Has something gone wrong?”
“Of course not,” the God King said.
The Devoted said nothing; they knew the God King was not supposed to have been reincarnated here for some time yet. They also knew not to demand answers of him.
Some Deathless would execute their servants for even this small amount of questioning, but the God King was no fool. Mortals were a resource, one he had used to great advantage when many of his peers dismissed them out of hand. In fact, he was fond of many of them, including Eves, High Devoted of this particular temple.
Surround yourself with people too afraid to speak, and you left yourself to only your own ideas. That could be disastrous. It was important to have men who would question you and see flaws in your plans, so long as you could control them. It was all about control.
The rain continued outside; the God King wished he could control that. He was trying to find ways, for it galled him that he could not do something so seemingly simple.
The eye of the room’s primary deadmind displayed a window into his palace on Lantimor, the place where that . . . child had defeated him. It displayed an empty throne room, and information came up in lists beside it.
A week had passed since his death. A tiny smidgen of time, barely worth noticing—except it meant that the child had had time to escape with the Godkiller. No matter. Raidriar had good ways to keep track of him.
A particular bit of information scrolled past, and it gave the God King pause. Dead, he read. All three of my captives. But those were soul cells. They couldn’t be completely gone unless . . .
The sword was working. That should have been impossible, in the hands of one such as he’d faced. The proof was before him, however, and he felt a thrill at it. How, then, had Raidriar himself survived? He confronted this question, the one most worrisome to him, as it displayed a profound lack of control. That fight had not gone the way it should have.
Of course. It was strong enough to kill lesser Deathless, but not yet at full power. He should have realized this. Perhaps only one more death of the right bloodline, and . . .
Ah, he thought, seeing another bit of information. That could be an issue.
“Find me a recording of the moment where I let him defeat me,” he said out loud. The servants worked, and the deadmind mirror displayed an image of him fighting the child in the throne room.
Too many questions. He hated questions. They would surrender their secrets to him; he had come too far to let this plan spiral away from him now. In a way, all that had happened was good, as he now had the proof he needed.
And so, he decided he had not been defeated. This was what the plan had required, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.
Those moves . . . he thought idly, pondering the recording. So familiar. Who trained him . . . ?
And then it all locked into place.
He’d been played. Masterfully. Worker of Secrets, he thought. My, but you are a subtle one.
“Gather the Seringal,” he said, sending his Devoted to fetch the most skilled of his knights. “And set up surveillance on that child.”
The Devoted burst into motion. The God King sat back, contemplating. He waited for six hours, practically motionless, a few thoughts playing across his mind. He could faintly recall when six hours would have felt like a great deal of time to sit and think, but now it passed as quickly to him as a single breath.
His servants located the child, crossing the rocky expanses of his homeland. The God King laced his fingers, inspecting the child’s path.
So. This ‘Siris’ was returning to the palace, was he? Why? The God King leaned forward and watched with interest.
Siris stepped up onto the edge of a rocky precipice overlooking the God King’s castle. It squatted in the cliffs, like a nugget of dark iron trapped in the surrounding rocks.
He’d decided that he needed to start here, primarily because he wanted to lay down a new trail for anyone looking for him. He didn’t want them tracking him to Drem’s Maw; he needed, instead, to lead them another direction.
He started the hike down to the castle. The other Deathless, he thought. Maybe I could . . . buy them off.
He looked down at the sword he wore in an improvised sheath at his side. They wanted the God King’s weapon; perhaps he should just give it to them.
No, he thought. They’ll still execute me for killing their king. A mortal did not slay a god.
He continued down the pathway toward the God King’s palace. It stood to reason that they’d begin looking for him here; if there were daerils still in this place, he could make a big show for them of going somewhere other than Drem’s Maw. That might work, might give his mother some protection.
The rocky path was slippery with pebbles and shale. He remembered walking this long route just over a week before, each footstep electric. He’d been marching to his death. That doom was one he’d come to grips with, however, and he had even been excited by the challenge ahead of him.
This time, he walked with a slower step. He felt . . . older now. Ancient.
At the base of the cliff, he put on his armor. He continued forward, reaching a tree hung with ropes just outside the palace walls.
He stopped and inspected the tree. A rope could be a weapon, if you really needed one. Tie a heavy bit of metal to one end, then swing it about and attack. He’d practiced that.
The children of Drem’s Maw had done something different with ropes. They’d created swings on the trees outside of the maw
. Siris had once stood on one of those, then had several boys push, so he could practice keeping his balance on unsteady footing.
He’d never just sat down and swung. What is wrong with me, he thought, continuing forward with clanking steps. Why didn’t I ever try it, even once?
He reached the side gate to the castle, and a daeril stepped out. Long of limb, with red-orange skin and a skeletal cast to the arms and legs, the daeril had a horrifically twisted face.
Siris raised his sword with a sigh. He’d have to fight his way in again, it appeared.
“Great master!” the daeril exclaimed. It jumped forward, and Siris stumbled back, wary. The creature didn’t attack, but threw itself at Siris’s feet. “Great master, you have returned!”
“I . . . State your purpose, daeril!”
“We live to serve you, master. I am Strix, and I obey. The castle is yours, now! The kingdom as well.”
The kingdom . . . mine? He almost laughed. He’d never be able to stand against the forces of the other gods, even if this creature were telling the truth. Which he found suspect.
“What am I supposed to do with a kingdom?” Siris said, walking around the daeril—keeping an eye on it—and crossing the bridge to enter the palace’s outer court. The court seemed strikingly familiar to him, though he’d only passed this way that one time.
“Great master—” Strix began.
“Don’t call me that,” Siris said.
“Greatest lord of all that is powerful and—”
“That’s really not any better.”
The daeril fell silent. “My lord . . .” the daeril began again, stepping up to him. “Please. Let us serve you. Remain here and rule us. Do not leave us again.”
Siris hesitated. “How many of you are there in this place, still?”
“Perhaps two dozen, master.”
“And you will all serve me?”
“Yes, great master. Yes indeed! You have slain our ruler, and in so doing have become our leader.”